


In the Bathtub

by somekindofseizure



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Bathtub Sex, F/M, Hollywood ad, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-16 10:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14162511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somekindofseizure/pseuds/somekindofseizure
Summary: Fulfillment of that Hollywood AD Mulder and Scully in the bathtub prompt, as promised.





	In the Bathtub

She first slips her hand between her thighs to the sound of his chuckling. The reason he’s laughing doesn’t matter. The topics pass quickly. Film sets, celebrity crushes – these are not the kinds of things that can hold the attention of people who make a habit of bothering only with things they would die for.

It is the laugh itself that makes the lasting impression - quiet, sarcastic, a withholding sound, half-swallowed by the two beige phone receivers between them - and she forgets what has caused it almost immediately. Or maybe she forgets because of the wine. Or maybe she forgets because her hand is between her legs. Or maybe her hand is between her legs because she’s drinking wine. Or maybe it’s all because he’s laughing into the phone, gurgling unintentionally into her warmed up ear. It’s all tangled up in her head as she tips her it back over the cool white porcelain veneer, identical versions of which wait ready to rest under the necks of some two hundred other guests at the Beverly Ernesto hotel. Only one such neck matters to her – the one she often wants to break, the one she sometimes finds herself wanting to sink her nails or her teeth into, the one that just seconds ago made the laugh that made her want to touch herself.

She smiles at the ceiling as she realizes how tipsy she is, how well the body handles certain tasks with drunken aplomb while it flails at other more banal ones. She could barely find her way home if she spun around twice on her own front steps but still, her longest left-handed finger finds the center of her existence drowned and drunk and swirled in soap with the precision of a compass.

“I have a little crush on someone too,” she says and he asks who so fast she’s almost angry. “Not telling,” she says rather more briskly than she intended going into her fake confession, but the way he Awwww shucks her on the other end of the line, the true just-missed-the-alien disappointment in his voice, makes her wet in places the bathwater hasn’t touched. Not yet.

“Scully, what’s that noise? It sounds – it sounds almost like you’re in the bathtub too.”

“I am,” she allows, and slips her finger all the way inside herself, its journey well-lubricated by the curiosity in his voice. She holds her breath to hear the micro-reaction she knows he’ll subdue. Unlike any other subject in the world, she has to listen very hard to know what Mulder really thinks of her. But she has been listening for seven years. And she thinks he thinks she’s just fine.

And she thinks it even more when she hears the outset of an unintentional groan get buried by the palm of his hand. The line crackles as though they’re on walkie talkies in the rain and then she realizes—

“Mulder, are you in the bath too?”

“Yes,” he whispers and then there’s that laugh again only now it’s a little shyer – she’s gotten ahead of him. This turns her on even more but she senses the whole thing will be more fun if she gives it a second, so she deprives herself her finger, draws her hand up her belly and circles the skin round her navel. The water makes her stomach flat and slippery as an ice rink as her fingernail cuts figure eights through the water. A hot, melting ice rink.

“Mm,” she responds. He begins to breathe heavier and now he doesn’t hide it, lets her hear it. She’s not going to tell him though, she’s not going to fucking tell him unless he asks. Ask, Goddamit, Mulder. Ask.

“Scully…”

The sound of her name draws a steady pulse in her clitoris and she gasps as though she’s sliced herself open. She reaches for her wine, gulps to keep herself from saying anything else. He has to ask or she’s hanging up, finishing this alone.

“When you said we fear we’re really machines for eating and fucking –“

“I didn’t say fucking.”

“Did you mean—“

“Mulder, stop.”

There is only one question left to ask her, only one question she will tolerate right now. She pants, lifts her head, holds the receiver with pointed fingertips, ready to hang up on him. She counts to five in her head. Five seconds or she’s doing this alone.

“What are you doing, Scully?”

That’s the one. She smiles.

“Do you really want to know?”

She moves her hand around, lets him hear the water capture her elbow, her shoulder and then release them again.

“Please…” he whispers.

“I’m touching myself.”

He licks his lips. Or touches his face with his wet hand. Scully, he whispers into the air. It’s like he’s saying it to someone else, as though he’s just been confronted with some crisis and perhaps, for him, this is one. They have been pushing this, inching themselves over the invisible line they drew down the center console of a Ford Taurus almost a decade ago now, but they always stumble back to their sides. Well, that car has been gone a long time now, was rented to begin with, was never really theirs anyway. But they took those borrowed pieces of plastic and rubber and built natural boundaries of them, carved separate nations on either side of a pebbled vinyl hill for themselves to live in. In the past seven years, those invisible, futile, fear-filled, imaginary spaces they created are the only entities either has paid more loyalty than each other.

“Tell me,” he begs finally.

“No,” she says.

“No?” and his confusion almost makes her want to cuddle, but only almost and it’s a distant almost to wanting to fuck herself silly.

“No, you tell me,” she counters, squeezing her breast as she moves her hand back down her torso, parts the bubbles in the shape of the letter T as she finds her clitoris, swollen and piqued beneath her fingertip like the loop of a silky pink bowtie. He hesitates long enough to make her wonder for a split second if she has been terribly mistaken, turned a professional slash friendly phone call into a humiliating story she’ll never live down.

“I was thinking of you doing that before I even called. It’s why I called. I got so hard and I had to hear your voice.”

She sighs in relief and sinks enough that the armpit draped over the tub, the one with the phone in it, aches a little. She’s doing this with her bad hand but the phone is short-corded and it would take too much time to rearrange and he’s hard or he was hard or something about hard so she makes quick, firm circles around her clit to catch up.

“Why didn’t you say so?” she asks, feeling a bit impertinent for someone whose just been paid the very compliment she was fishing for.

“I was scared.”

“Are you hard now?”

The laugh a third time, and this time it has the wet, raw honesty of the second as well as the sarcasm of the first.

“Tell me,” she insists.

“I’m stroking it slowly,” he says. “Thinking about you getting into this tub with me, sliding that little body of yours down onto it, hearing your knees thud as you sink all the way down and your ass touches the inside of my thighs.”

She’s going to come. She’s going to come so fast. But she doesn’t tell him that.

“And now you’re riding me and the bubbles are all disappearing so that I can see it, I can see all the way down to where our bodies meet.”

“How do I feel?” she pushes and just vaguely remembers he’s right next door, right next door, but she can’t get there.

“So good. I’m wrapping my fist around my dick and I can’t get it tight enough to feel as good as you do.”

She moans, she can’t help it, and she slides her fuck-you finger against her G-spot as she presses her wrist into her clitoris but then suddenly notices there’s no splashing on the other end of the phone. If he were really jerking off, wouldn’t there be splashing?

“Are you lying to me?” she asks, and her heart beats so hard she feels her face turn colors. She holds her hand still, forces herself to.

“Oh my God, Scully,” he says but it’s not the kind of oh my god she wants to hear, rather it’s the why are you so skeptical oh my god she’s heard almost every day for seven years, his nation’s national anthem. And then, she’s dropping the phone on the tile and breaking into his room with her key card, clutching a robe until she stands before him, dripping bubbles onto his bathroom floor until she sees his dick hard and rising through the surface of the water for her. The arches of her feet skim his abs, his hips as she finds him, sinks down onto him. He takes her hand and puts one of her fingers in his mouth as the cool air shapes her nipples until the water from her own bath, lukewarm from the journey drips off her body into his bathtub. He tastes each of them until he finds the one that was inside her. She pushes him away to watch him watch her surf the water with her hips.

“I could fuck you all night,” she says.

“Oh my God,” he says, his cheeks pink and his eyelashes fluttering, and he grabs her ass, pulling her cheeks apart to let her get even a little lower. It is the greedy, selfish kind of oh my God, the one she wants.

“You were saying?” she says and takes the clip out of her hair, tosses it across the room. She almost hears the strands sashay around her chin.

“I was saying you’re so wet and tight and perfect it’s ruining my life.”

“Good. What was I doing?”

“You were riding me.”

“Like this?”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying. You get a little softer when you lie.”

“No. Faster.”

The water splashes over the sides of the tub. He grabs the edge, hand sliding, squealing and squawking as he tries to sit up and hold her around the waist, kiss and lick the water from her collarbones. She wraps her left hand around his neck, hooks his head to her body like a prize fighter and moves her right hand – good hand – to her clitoris, moaning into his half-wet hair as she finally feels the perfect harmony of internal and external pressure.

“I’ve thought about you so many times,” he says and he grabs her arm, pulls it away from her clitoris, tosses it up onto his shoulder instead. He better know what he’s doing if he’s going to –

And he does. He rubs her so right.

“Say it,” he says. “Say it, Scully.”

“I’m going to come,” she whines, squeezing her eyes shut as the bubbles burn and drip from her lashes. “Fuck, I’m going to come.”

And then she does, with his finger pierced between their bodies, the buzz of the wine and the suffocating heat and the wet rub of the ceramic under her knees all disappearing, the water displacing itself around them and between them and inside her to make room for him as he fills her and sucks on the piece of her neck behind her ear, the only dry place in the room.

She loses track of what she says, what he says, the noises either of them is making and then rests her neck back over the ledge to catch her breath.

“Did you come?” she asks, loosening her grip on the receiver. When he doesn’t answer, she fears she’s gotten too much water into the phone splashing around. Fears, even worse, that she has embarrassed him, has erased a line that he needed, taken down a weight-bearing wall, done damage she’ll have to pay for.

“Mulder?”

And then she hears her door slam.

“Not yet,” he answers finally, his eyes nervous but hungry as he takes her in. “You’ll have to keep talking.”

“Mulder,” she says, more surprised than she should be probably as he drops the towel around his feet. His dick is hard and proud and dripping with something that is not her. His shoulders are around his ears, hands in fists at his side. He’s worried. She presses herself up to her knees and looks him in the eye. She should have called him over here sooner. So much sooner.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

“No,” she says. The hand she beckons him with is still warm from the body of the phone receiver. But soon his hips are harder, warmer, realer in her palms. She glances up to make sure he’s watching. “It’s just I don’t know how I’m going to talk dirty with this in my mouth.”


End file.
